


he wants the colour of you to wear and feel alive

by duskendales



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 2x09, F/M, Kink Meme, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:09:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskendales/pseuds/duskendales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Now darling, is that a way to welcome me back? I haven’t seen you in the flesh in such a long time.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	he wants the colour of you to wear and feel alive

She doesn't remember much from her birthday party, or the Hale house, or her way back home. It seems out of place and time how she suddenly finds herself in her bathroom, unclasping her earrings and putting them on the sink. As she throws her clothes to the floor and steps into the shower she feels a wave of tiredness wash over her, as if a great burden has been lifted from her shoulders after a time far too long.

 

It comes back to her, slowly, random flashes of fresh memories; the punch with blue flowers drifting on the surface, Derek's green eyes, blood dripping from his arm... But she dismisses the images quickly and there is something resembling happiness blooming in her chest, because it's the first time in so long that she can think on her own.

 

She stumbles to her bed and crawls under the cold sheets. As her eyes close she doesn't think about anything, her mind blissfully blank and free from his looming presence. (It's paradoxical, really, how by resurrecting one monster, she's buried another. _He's not hers anymore._ )

 

She's on the verge between sleep and consciousness when a sudden gust of cool wind touches her face, and there is a creaking noise somewhere near the window ( _it must be the branch hitting the glass_ ); it's louder and Lydia knows to close her eyes, ( _but I've buried my monster, there is nothing else out there for me to fear anymore--_ ).

 

The floorboards creak closer and closer to her bed, while Lydia takes slow, deliberate breaths to try to stop her heart from jumping out of her chest. She feels the mattress sink in on the other side of the bed and she smells leather mixed with soil and ash.

 

“I'm afraid I didn't have the chance to thank you properly, little one,” she hears, and a shiver shakes through her body. Warm fingers brush her hair from her cheek; she still refuses to open her eyes. “As a way of repayment, I'll see to it that not a single hair falls from your pretty head. That should make us even, especially now that a hell of a storm is brewing in this town.”

 

His breath is warm on her face as he moves closer. “Now darling, is that a way to welcome me back? I haven't seen you in the flesh in such a long time.”

 

She opens her eyes then, green meeting blue and his lips curve into a sharp smile. “That's better.”

 

“I'll scream,” she says, her voice nothing more than a whisper. The place where he keeps his hand is burning hot, and her heart is fluttering like a butterfly in her throat.

 

“You could,” Peter agrees, “but you won't.”

 

His lips are on her neck (always, always there), so warm and demanding, planting open mouthed kisses on her skin, then biting ever-so-lightly with his sharp, sharp teeth. Lydia can't decide if what she feels is pain or pleasure, her eyes rolling to the back of her head and hands tightly grasping the sheets. He chuckles, the sound reverberating against her skin. (Still, she doesn't scream.)

 

She doesn't even try to struggle anymore - she remembers the images he's shown her, _disobedience results in blood_ ; she's dizzy with his weight on top of her. This time there is something different about the experience, like wearing a glove that doesn't really fit. He's too warm, too real, too _alive_.

 

When she doesn't respond, his kisses become angrier and his bites deeper; she thinks he's broken the skin of her throat; sticky, coppery blood is smeared on her neck and his lips as he moves his head back to her level.

 

He smiles darkly with his teeth bloody. “My little red.”

 

A low gasp leaves her lips as his fingers dig painfully into her hips and every place he touches he sets on fire. Lydia is burning, the heat consumes her inside out, and she arches into his body, desperate to put the fire out. It's still so hard to distinguish reality from dreams ( _she's dreamed those too, but it was always his younger self on top of her, it was his smooth cheek caressing the inside of her thigh, only the eyes, they are the same shade of blue_ ), but this time there is something about him that feels almost too real for her to hold back.

 

He attacks her mouth with ferocious, savage kisses, his teeth latching at her lower lip and dragging his tongue across hers as if he wants to taste every little piece of her. She moans into his mouth (he tastes like blood, and _life_ ) and rolls her hips into his, her legs wrapping themselves around his waist. She hears him growl as he bites hard onto her lip and there is more blood on her tongue now, and she doesn't even realise when she has started to kiss him back. 

 

He rips her nightshirt off and his kisses trail down her chest, leaving a wet trail there as she grasps a handful of his hair and digs her nails into his scalp. Her senses seem heightened, and she feels him everywhere, stubble scratching the sensitive skin of her stomach and his bruising grip on her hips. His lips drift lower and that's when her world turns bright red.

 

He is delighted, a starved man feasting, as his tongue darts inside her and her hips jerk. She doesn't even remember the last time Jackson did this for her, and she certainly doesn't remember it feeling like _that_ , like she is the most delicious dish he's ever tasted, how he can't get enough of her. (And that's what Peter tells her.)

 

Lydia is moaning and gasping, and thrashing among the sheets, her hands pulling at Peter fucking Hale's hair, but the only thing she can think of right now is his tongue inside her, and piece by piece she's coming apart. It's a whirl of screams and colours when she finally does, her head falling back onto the pillow and she's gasping for breath as if she is drowning.

 

He doesn't give her time to regain sanity, as he pulls her thighs father apart and pushes in too deep and too fast, but she doesn't tell him to stop. She feels so unbearably filled like she is going to explode any second; and then he moves, and she is moving her own hips back with his. She can feel the angular planes of his chest against hers, and lean muscles beneath her fingers as she digs her nails into his back with all the force she can muster. She shudders around him with every thrust, eyes screwed shut to block out the cruel red of his eyes.

 

He says her name against her ear, and her thighs clench around his hips, a desperate moan escaping her mouth. Fire is burning around her, _inside her_ , and Peter picks up the speed of his thrusts, sharp teeth shining in the moonlight. 

 

She's unable to distinguish where she ends and he begins, and she's so  _very_ close it's an agony, until he bites at the back of her shoulder and unbearable pleasure sears through her like a knife. 

 

Later, when he kisses her, he tastes of blood, and her.

 

He doesn't leave. He buries his face in her neck instead and his arms curl around her like snakes, but for once, in some perverse way it feels _right_. They fit so well together, the perfect mix of right and wrong.

 

Strangely enough, it's the first night in a long time that she doesn't suffer any nightmares.

 


End file.
